Page 103 of Born for Lace

I barely move as he slides in and out of my slick core, rhythmic, relentless, determined.

“Oh…” My eyes roll, and I gasp for air, stamping the shiny surface with my heavy breath.

This man has a way of making me feel taken, even as I beg for it. He makes me feel utterly defenceless, completely vulnerable—at the mercy of his powerful hands and hot, deep drives.

“That’s my good girl. Defiled and fucked, andsomine.” He hums, the sound deep and delicious.

My core clings to his length, wanting to keep him deep, and locks on as he draws out, leaving me in a frenzy.

I mewl and moan, my pulse fluttering inside my neck. “Lagos…”

“I’ve been so gentle with you, little flower,” he says, groaning as he pounds into me. “I’ve been soft. Usually, I’d need my mouth full of pussy and my cock stuffed in one to feel satisfied, but there is something about your trembling body that feeds me in ways nothing else ever has.”

I like that. That I’m enough. That he desires me as I desire him. From the moment I saw him, I knew. I’d never seen anything so... male. And I wanted it, to my core, to my most primitive cell—I wanted him.

Mouth gasping, I begin to come undone as his dick thickens, so long, so hot, so wide—inside me.

Stretching.

Rubbing.

Stroking.

How does he do t-that—Oh…Stars burst behind my eyes, and my mouth twists in sweet agony.

“Mine.” He grunts. Thrusts. “All mine. Fuck.Yes.”

Deeper.

Harder.

Thrust.

Then he brackets my legs, restlessly pawing at my hips, and pumps and pulses into me, shuddering and growling, the sound rivalling the dominant Redwind outside the barn.

* * *

Lagos works outside throughout the next two days while Tomar ransacks the kitchen cupboards and storerooms. They keep their distance from each other, even eating separately.

Guilt coils in my stomach.

I did this. Maybe that is why The Trade offers a man a Lace Girl? To stop the conflict between men?

I want to help Lagos or Tomar gather items, but Lagos grunts and says, “No,” and Tomar declines, telling me to focus my efforts on Spero.

So, I try to breastfeed the tiny Xin De assassin several times, cry when nothing happens, and then offer the bottle with powdered milk.

I don’t know if I am doing this correctly, but I am helpless and inexperienced, and it is hard not to blame myself.

When I get a chance, Lagos and I talk… Well,Italk, and he listens. Even having been around The Cradle and seen things I can’t even imagine or dream of, he doesn’t share. And I wonder whether he has been going through the motions, even being free, his existence, to his core, is still geared for Meaningful Purpose.

It starts in the womb.

Whereas affection is attached to my words and stories… I tell him about Maple and my Ward, but Lagos has no one to speak of. Only Tomar, I suppose.

At last-light on our second day, I watch Lagos shower in the barn. He holds a hose over his head, the water lapping along his muscles. Between his thick thighs, his balls seem heavy, and his dick sways as he washes himself, the water rushing the long length of it and licking from the tip.

His body is unnaturally—unfairly—virile. Every muscle is long, lean, and formed around a heavy frame.

---